


I Am Porcelain, She Is Steel

by sansalannistark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Jaimsa Smut Week, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansalannistark/pseuds/sansalannistark
Summary: Jaime has sworn to be dutiful. There is little he would not do for his Queen: even when he is gone, he serves her happiness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An angsty, smutty ficlet for Jaimsa Smut Week. Prompt: One Night Stand, which I took liberties with since it was the most difficult for me to write!

He has asked her multiple times if she wants this, wants him, yet no matter how much she assures him she does, no matter how much she arches shyly into him, he is still hesitant. Sansa has chided him time and time again for treating her as if she is porcelain. In truth, he is the porcelain and she the steel; she has always been strong, his Queen, his Sansa.

Winterfell is brutally cold at the start of this long winter, but Sansa’s skin is unbearably warm as he strokes her wrist and slides his golden hand to rest on her waist, anchoring then both to this present bliss away from the politics of her Northern court. “My love...” he declares to the howling wind, “you are certain?”

“How many times, Jaime? I am no fragile thing. I ask only that you respect my wishes, which I trust you most surely to do so. Do you not understand?” she whispers, so softly he barely hears. “I need you. To chase away the last remaining ghosts.”

She has made her point; now he must make his. “Yes. Yes I can do that.” Jaime finds her lips, chapped from the bitter cold but as warm and pliable as the skin at her wrist which his good hand rubs. Sansa twists her neck to better capture his lips and, naturally, succeeds in her conquest: he is hers, only hers, when they are alone.

A light tap to his hand brings him back to the present. Sansa is watching him curiously, eager and wiling for him to continue. Jaime takes his cue and nuzzles into Sansa’s neck, brushing her pulse point, revelling in her sharp gasp and the beguiling scent that is utterly Sansa. He can tell whenever she has been to the Godswood because her skin smells like pine trees. In his youth he had despised the northern scent. Now that Sansa has taken to it, Jaime realises that he rather likes it himself.

“More,” she urges, grasping at the hair at the back of his neck. Jaime obliged her readily and moves his mouth down her neck. Along her collarbone he dots feathered kisses until he reaches the hem of her dress, whereupon he pulls her wrist up and kisses it firmly, flicking his tongue over her stammering pulse. Sansa gasps and stares at him with wide eyes. “More,” she repeats, glassy eyed, pupils blown.

“Of course,” he says without leaving her gaze. Jaime leaves her wrist and tugs at the laces of her gown with his hand. “Can I take this off?”

“Yes... please,” she adds hastily. It is endearing to him: even as he works her free of her clothes, she remembers her courtesies. She is too good for him. Far too good for anything in this rotten world but she is here and he will do anything to please her. It is the least she deserves; unwavering loyalty and happiness are two things he will never deny her.

Sansa sees him struggling with one hand and silently aids him. With her dress hanging loose at her shoulders, it is easy enough for him to peel loose and throw away. In the meanwhile, Sansa has cautiously begun to remove his doublet and shirt. When she is done, her hands rest on his chest, with his own on her shoulders as he pulls her into another kiss, this time daring to slip his tongue inside her mouth.

When he has taken her shift off, he is able to trace the outline of her cunt through her small clothes and can feel how damp the cloth is. Even here in the North, far from his youngier, cockier self, Jaime cannot suppress the quirk that comes to his lips. Sansa is quick to notice it but she too smiles, albeit with nerves. Jaime takes measures to reassure her, swiping her lips with his tongue, then running his finger over her small clothes until she is thoroughly aroused. Only then does he move so that he is kneeling at her feet and removes her small clothes. She is watching him intently, so he fixes his gaze to hers as he presses his mouth to her cunt.

“Jaime!” she cries. “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime...” She is exquisite, is Sansa. She is the most divine thing he has ever tasted and if he could he would stay like this forever, with his tongue licking inside her core, lapping up her sweet juices. All the while his thumb rubs her clit, bringing her closer and closer to the release she so desperately craves. Sansa mewls above him, her fingers tangling in his hair for support as he licks and laves at her, then with one final, firm suck at her nub, she arches into him, howling, the walls of her cunt contracting as she finds her pleasure. Jaime holds her up, arms firmly around her torso as she quivers in his arms, the most delightful expression of awe on her face.

Then there is only kissing, and fucking, though with Sansa it is not some base, inhuman thing - he is loving her with every part of him, pouring his soul into her, as she fills him with a sense of wholeness. This is where he belongs. Hovering over her cunt, he notices that she hesitant, still not entirely confident and for that he takes his time, sliding inside her warmth with slowly until she is used to the sensation. He watches attentively for her refusal, any indication that she doesn’t want him, that she is uncomfortable, but she does naught but sigh pleasurably.

“Gods, Sansa, love. You feel so good,” he tells her, flushed with arousal. He feels so close to her. Physically, he relishes in the feel of her damp skin and hard nipples against him, but in her eyes he can see her devotion and it assures him of her honesty more than Cersei ever had with her manipulative words. He belongs to her.

Jaime begins to rock his hips against her. He can feel her slick against his cock and if he wasn’t already hard, he would be now. Sansa is moaning softly, her head resting on his shoulder as she bucks against him, finding a rhythm. “Jaime, can you... harder... please...” she whines.”Oh!” she cries out, when he begins to thrust harder. Adjusting his hips slightly, he finds her the spot that makes her feverish with want, and works his hips harder against it. Sansa is keening around him, her hair sticking to her forehead. Tenderly he wipes it back, kissing the damp skin there. “My love,” she murmurs to him, “I’m close... I’m so close...”

“Sansa, my sweet Sansa,” he cups her cheek to tilt her head up. “Do you want me to pull out? It makes no difference to me.”

“No... no, I don’t... you can...” she breaks off to cry out and Jaime matches her, moaning freely. Sansa’s cunt is tightening around his cock and she is struggling to speak, breathless with desire and completely wanton. What has he reduced her to? “I’m close... oh gods, I’m close... Jaime.”

“That’s it. Come for me, Sansa. Come for me.”

Jaime pushes harder, thrusting into her hot, wet heat until she finds her relief, moaning loudly, utterly impassioned. Jaime feels her juices cover his cock and follows her with a growl, spilling his seed inside her. He remains inside her afterwards, unwilling to serparate them, even if just for a while. Jaime settles for tracing circles over Sansa’s bare back as she curls closer to him.

Will this mean anything come morning? Sansa might love him. She might care for him as he does her, yet when she remembers what they’ve done, will she truly with to repeat it? Will she even want to see his face?

————

Nothing is said of the situation for months. Not until Jaime leaves for battle, until he cannot stop himself from parting without a kiss. When he relinquishes his grip on Sansa, she is just as astounded as he. “I love you, I’ve always loved you.” The words come pouring out before he can stop himself. He braces for her rejection, but it never comes.

“Jaime,” she whispers, tracing the stubble in his chin. “Why did you say nothing?” She is almost in tears, but his thumb is already wiping them away, as he often does.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he confesses. “I’m a fool.

“I love you, my lion,” she cries softly, wrapping her arms around his neck and hiding her tears in his skin. Jaime hugs her tightly and kisses the skin on her neck.

“Return to me. Swear it, Jaime. You will return to me. Your Queen commands it.”

“I swear it. I’ll come back, you know I will.”

When she is presented with his cold body a month later, she breaks down sobbing in front of the whole of Winterfell and flees to her room. Days come and go and no one is able to see her, let alone console her. Sansa spends her days alone, regretting ever letting him go, regretting their foolish, awkward encounters after they had been intimate. So many mistakes she has made and this may have been the worst of them, for the simple fact that she has now lost another person that she loves.

It is only when she starts retching one night, throwing up into her chamberpot as she convulses with sickness, that it occurs to her that she has missed her last two moonbloods. She had almost given up hope of ever having a child and the news elates her, even if the thought of raising her child alone - without him - tears at her heart and brings bile to her throat.

Jaime may have been taken from her, but he has left her with he greatest gift of all. For the first time since their coupling, Sansa isn’t alone.

“Thank you, Jaime.”

In the glittering candlelight, she can almost convince herself he’s there.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects on Jaime’s death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t planning to expand on this, but an idea popped into my head and I had to write it!

Sansa is motionless beside the bed, her fingers curled around the cold material. She can feel the familiar toughness of the fabric, and when she smells him, her dignity is pierced and the tears she has fought so earnestly to hold back come rushing forth, swamping her in the sadness she has tried to stave away for the last year. Though his passing has pained her every day, she had almost managed to keep beyond grief’s rabid clutches, until Jon appeared at her door that morning, holding Jaime’s cloak out in front of him. She had recognised it straight away, tearing it from his hands without hesitation and only realising what exactly she was holding a second later, biting her lip painfully behind the confines of her chamber walls. Jon had said they found it in one of the chests in his room, when they had been cleaning the last things from there. Bringing the cloak to her lips now forces tears to swamp her cheeks and she clamps her lips shut hard to stop the sob rising in her throat, convulsing instead.

She is certain he wore this cloak when he mad love to her, or perhaps it is the musings of a widow that makes her think she can still smell her old rose perfume on the lining, and, underneath, the smell of pine that is so indicative of Jaime. Her heart bleeds when she considers him, his green eyes flashing as he made a jape, and the worry underneath when he thought he had gone too far, brought up bad memories. His eyes are the only thing she unequivocally believes she will not forget; she needs only to look into her daughter’s face to see Jaime’s eyes.

Beneath the unrelenting sorrow that churns is an anger that ceases to quell, only rises further and further as Sansa stares at the cloak. It is unfair, so cruelly unfair that he left her when she had only just had him. All he left her was a daughter, a girl she treasures, but a fatherless daughter all the same, with a grief-ridden mother.

“Jaime, you stupid, stupid man,” she whimpers, dropping her head so that he - whether he lingering or far - cannot hear her words wrap themselves around her throat like manacles. When Jon told her how Jaime had attacked the Night King himself, she had been proud, even in sorrow, but not surprised. Jaime had always been a fool. Nonetheless, such foolishness cost him his life, and - she fears - hers along with it. _No_ , she chides herself - careless, so careless... _you have a daughter..._ She cannot think like this.

“I love you,” she breathes. How can she say _loved_? It would be as if he never existed at all and the two months she had with him (two months, that was no time at all; far less than either of them deserved) were better than the eternity alone that had faced her since Winterfell was retaken.

She relegates herself to weeping silently (she is still a Queen after all, she must appear strong). A patter of feet on the stone floors drags her from her mournful reflections and she does not need to turn to know who has just sunk down beside her. Sansa ruffles a hand affectionately over her babe’s hair. At barely a year old, her little Lyanna is clever and as she snuggles into her mother’s side and reaches for her pale hand, slotting her singers beside her mother’s. Sansa thinks she might understand death far better than she ever did. It scares her a little, to have her daughter so accepting of the finality of it, the permanence and the humbling change it brings, but Lyanna was born in a time of war. While Sansa learned to accept death, her daughter will have to learn to accept life.

“Mama...” Sansa’s head snaps to her daughter’s, watching her lip tremble and her downcast face. A lone tear slips down her baby’s cheek, and Sansa mirrors her, reaching for her and gathering the tiny girl in her thin arms until Lyanna is close to her breast, her heart beating steadily under the miniature fur cloak. For the first time, Sansa lets out a shaky sigh of relief.

“It’s alright, Lyanna,” she murmurs, steadying her voice. Her hand cups Lyanna’s pale red hair, fingers running through it methodically. Lyanna slips further into sleep, but before she succumbs, she mumbles, catching Sansa unawares.

“Mama, why is daddy gone?”

She wishes she could answer her. Sansa wishes she had answers for all of her daughter’s questions, but she barely has explanations for herself. Instead, she continues stroking Lyanna’s hair and presses a featherlight kiss to her temple, brushing back an errant curl that rests there. “Shhhh, sweet baby,” she whispers, feeling her little girl drift into sleep. “Your father loves you, no matter where he is, and I love you. He loved us both.”

She cannot hold back the rippling tears that slip, but Lyanna is asleep. With a final look at the cloak discarded on the floor, Sansa walks from the room, fingers clenched in Lyanna’s cloak, anchoring her so that she does not look back and remember all that she has lost and let it consume her. So that she does not break.


End file.
